


From a Distance

by startraveller776



Series: The Captain Swan Incomplete Collection [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, F/M, Online Dating, Quarantine, Romance, Two-Handed Captain Hook | Killian Jones, social distancing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23393860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startraveller776/pseuds/startraveller776
Summary: Star musician Killian Jones is a private man. He expertly dons a devil-may-care swagger for the public eye, keeping the real version of himself carefully locked away. As the lockdown for the pandemic drags on, however, he becomes desperate enough for human contact that he’s finally willing to do the Facebook Live Q&A his manager has been after him about. That simple decision turns into something far more complex than he expects. For how does one pursue a beautiful, mysterious lass during quarantine and social distancing—especially when she seems reluctant to have the sudden attention of a famous bad boy?(PERPETUALLY INCOMPLETE)
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Series: The Captain Swan Incomplete Collection [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2094441
Comments: 34
Kudos: 72





	1. Happy Accidents

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** whimsicallyenchantedrose shared [this feel-good article](https://www.goodnewsnetwork.org/watch-nyc-man-woo-his-neighbor-during-covid-quarantines/) as a prompt, and I just had to write it! This was going to be a one shot, but as with all my CS ideas lately, it's grown into something a little more.
> 
> **There will be no further updates to this story. Read at your own peril.**

Two weeks into this bloody pandemic, Killian’s beginning to rethink living alone. 

When he bought this flat, he liked the idea of having a quiet place of his own, far from the glitz and glamor that comes with his career. Now his haven has begun to feel dangerously close to solitary confinement. Which is precisely how Tink has finally talked him into that online Q&A session she’s been after him about for ages.

He should be writing lyrics, strumming a new tune. That had been his plan when the state went into lockdown, but he’s been oddly uninspired. He’s feeling nostalgic for a night gigging at some dimly-lit pub with nothing more than his old Gibson and a tumbler of rum. Though if he’s being honest, the virus hasn’t taken that from him. Fame was the culprit.

With a sigh, he steps out onto the small balcony of his flat, leans against the railing and, coffee in hand, takes in the relatively fresh air of New York. It’s a beautiful day, clear and balmy as if mother nature is cocking a snook at all the poor souls trapped in doors. The familiar bustle of the city—car engines and blaring horns, sirens, pedestrians shuffling along the sidewalks—all that is muted. He prefers the noise, misses it. What little is left is hardly more than a hazy echo of a dying civilization.

He grimaces at the overly dour thought. He really needs to get out of his head. But not before he jots that line down. Maybe it’ll spark something.

It doesn’t. An hour later, he’s on his worn leather couch, fingers scrubbing through his hair in frustration as he looks at the mess of scribbles in his notebook, all jumbled, half-formed thoughts. He can’t seem to make them fit together. He’s about five tracks shy of his next album, and the stress of it sits heavy between his shoulder blades.

An alarm chimes on his phone, reminding him that it’s time to get ready for that live video. He never thought he’d be grateful for any public appearance outside of performing, but it’s a welcome distraction today. He briefly considers going online in his threadbare Ramones t-shirt and grey sweats splattered with paint. Tink would have his head, and the thought makes him grin. 

But no, he’s learned to choose his battles. Since his first record went platinum, he’s had a team of people telling him what to wear, what to say, where to go. He may be a stubborn arse sometimes— _all the time_ according to Will and Robin—but he’s intelligent enough to understand that this is a business of image as much as it is about the music. He’s willing to pay the necessary price, no matter how it chafes sometimes, for his music to reach a wider audience. That’s what drives him, that soul-to-soul connection.

He changes into black jeans, a dark blue button down and a darker waistcoat, rolling his sleeves to his elbows. Next, his beard gets a trim, and he tries his best to mimic the way his stylist makes his hair look artfully disheveled, though the locks are getting longer than he likes. The jewelry, at least, is all him. Ruby built his entire wardrobe around the pieces when he told her that they were non-negotiable. She calls the look “modern pirate chic.”

The reflection that stares back at him from the mirror isn’t a complete stranger. Killian Jones the Star is merely an amplified version of Killian Jones the Average Bloke—more charismatic, more audacious, more mysterious, more brooding. Handsome, exciting, just a bit feral. Qualities _not_ included in his star persona: the borderline obsessive-compulsive need for cleanliness and order, the tendency to drink a little too much when he’s feeling morose, the temper he sometimes has trouble keeping in check, among other failings and quirks.

He takes a selfie and shoots it off to Tink before she can badger him about the livestream.

_Does this meet with her majesty’s approval?_

Her reply comes a few second later: _Almost perfect. Try not to look like you’re marching toward your death. You like your fans, remember? Smile for them._

He rolls his eyes. He does like his fans very much, thank you. He just happens to like them better in person—when he’s on stage with a full band behind him. But beggars can’t be choosers in a pandemic. He takes another selfie, this one with a grin that leans heavily toward being a full-blown smirk. He does his best to smolder without the kohl they normally smudge around his eyes. He’d rather leave off with that for good, and perhaps he will after today.

He texts the new shot to Tink. _Better?_

_Much. You’re on in 10._

After grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, he decides to head back to the balcony. The blue skies, dotted with puffy white clouds, will make for a nice backdrop. It’s as close as he can get to escaping the confines of his flat. He glances across the alleyway wishing, not for the first time, that the next building over had the same designer as his. It’s shorter by several stories, ending with a rooftop at level with his place. No terraces, no fire escapes—at least on the wall nearest him. He’s seen videos where the quarantined in other parts of the world manage to hold impromptu concerts or fitness classes across the balconies. At this point, he’d be glad for the chance to talk to another human without a screen between them.

He’s not so self-absorbed that he doesn’t understand why the lockdown is important. He gets it. He does, but it doesn’t make it any less, well, lonely—for lack of a better word. He can’t admit that publicly, though, lest he sound like another spoiled celebrity whining about having to use two-ply toilet paper instead of clouds mined from the sky, all while the rest of the world toils in the muck of reality.

He pulls out his phone, opens Facebook. He’s still got five more minutes, but he has to figure out how to log into his official page. He’s never had reason to access it before. One of Regina’s minions keeps it running, and the few times he’s made a video message or let the fans get a glimpse of a recording session, it’s been Tink behind the camera. How does one—? There’s the bloody “live” button. He turns so that most of the background behind him is an expanse of blue. The camera catches the roof of the neighboring building, but that can’t be helped.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” he mutters to himself before pasting on a smile. Tink’ll be watching. He starts the livestream.

“Hello, mates!” he says cheerfully, and for a heartbeat his mind goes utterly blank. He’s supposed to babble on about nonsense for a bit while people log in. He can imagine his pixie of a manager mouthing _“say something, anything!”_ at him right now. Hand going to scratch behind his ear—a nervous tick he can never seem to break himself of—he huffs a soft laugh to cover the swell of anxiety tightening in his chest. After an another uncomfortable beat, the words finally come.

“As you can see, the recent lack of social interaction has seemed to tarnish my silver tongue,” he says, relieved to have found his voice again. He’s met with a mixture of floating hearts, thumbs-up, and laughing emoticons dancing across the screen. Has that been a thing in all of his videos? “I hope everyone’s been safe during the insanity lately.”

There’s another flurry of soaring emoticons, and the messages scroll up in rapidfire succession, too fast for him to make out any of them. He glances at the number of viewers and that, too, skyrockets. Bloody hell. How is he supposed to answer questions if he can’t even read them?

“I’m glad to be with all of you,” he says with another laugh, “but perhaps a little less enthusiasm? You’re talking over each other.”

The messages slow, but only a little. There are well-wishes, expressions of gratitude for his willingness to reach out to his fans during these difficult times, and yeah, all right. Perhaps doing this Q&A session isn’t an exercise in conceit. (He despises talking about himself.) Several messages scroll past about the hardships of being cooped up—sentiments he shares.

“It _is_ getting a bit boring, yeah? Or maybe you’ve all been wiser than me and have someone to share your quarantine with.” He winks to keep the tone light and is rewarded with a wave of hearts. 

Overtures pour in by the droves, not unexpected but not something he particularly enjoys. He gives them a saucy smile anyway. The rabid attention went to his head in the early days of his success, but the luster wore off fairly quickly. They want the star, the mask. They don’t care to actually _know_ him.

“Thank you for all of the generous offers,” he says with a whisper of invitation in his words. Killian Jones the Star is supposed to be an unrepentant ladies’ man. “But we’d better stay put for now.” Crying icons speckle across the video feed, and he shakes his head with mock regret. “I know. It’s a bloody tragedy.” A slew of thumbs-up. “Shall we get started, then?”

The messages scroll up the screen at breakneck speed again, but he catches one, tries to remember the name of the asker as Tink coached him.

“Anne Michelle asks if I always knew I’d be a musician.” He glances away from the screen, uncertain whether he wants to answer this one honestly. Most of his life is now a matter of public record, nearly everything laid bare thanks to gossip rags and the determined research of his most dedicated followers. “Music has always been a part of my life,” he says after a beat. “But when I was a lad, I planned on becoming a Naval officer—like my older brother, Liam.”

That’s all he’ll give them, let them fill in the blanks themselves. 

Fortunately, the questions become easier from there. What’s his favorite song from his last album? (“That’s like asking a father which child is his favorite.” Wink. “Don’t tell the others, but I’m rather partial to ‘This Lost Boy.’”) When is he going on tour again? (“First, I’ve got to get back into the studio, love.”) Who’s his favorite artist to collaborate with? (“My mate, Robin Locksley, of course. But I also enjoyed working with Elsa last year. No, there wasn’t a torrid love affair between us. Yes, we really are just friends. Sorry to disappoint.”)

He ignores the inappropriate questions. Does he wear boxers or briefs? Is he a top or a bottom? He’s actually not sure what that means but from the reactions of the other fans, it’s not wise to ask for further clarification. He can Google that one later, if he’s feeling adventurous. (Tedium will probably drive him to it.)

Someone from England asks if he’s ever going to come back “home,” and it’s a punch in the gut. He answers with an ambiguous statement about the music scene in New York and latches onto the next reasonable question. If he could be an animal, what would it be? It’s silly, but it won’t have him digging up skeletons that ought to stay buried.

“I’m not sure,” he says. “What do you think? What kind of animal would I be?”

_Wolf_

_Wolf_

_Definitely wolf_

_Apex predator!! Grrrowl!!!_

_Vampire!_

A vampire? That one pulls a chuckle from him.

_Wolf_

_You can bite me any time_

He wants to sigh, but he doesn’t. “So, not a cute little puppy, then?”

_Wolf all the way!_

_With black fur._

_What was that??? Did anyone else see it??_

Killian frowns, then he too notices a flash of movement behind him on screen. He glances over his shoulder. A woman is dancing with abandon on the rooftop next door, oblivious of any eyes on her. She’s in a vest, joggers, and shearling boots, her long wavy blond hair swinging with every movement. Her back is to him, but there’s plenty to appreciate from this angle. Forgetting his followers, he’s lost for a few seconds to the way she gyrates her hips, and—hold on. Is that…? It _is._ It’s the choreography from Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” video. She’s doing a fantastic job of it, too. With a laugh, he flips the camera on his phone, zooming in to get a better look.

“I’m impressed,” he says, finally remembering his fans when his feed becomes a wall of hearts and laughter. “Should I hire her for my next tour? What do you—oh, _shit!_ _”_

In the middle of strutting a circuit on the roof, she’s finally become aware of her audience. He scrambles to switch the camera back to selfie mode, nearly dropping his phone in the process. Her eyes go wide when they land on him, then slide over to the device in his hand, and he curses under his breath. She’s stunning, even from this distance. Pale skin pinking at in her cheeks.

Perhaps it’s the rampant cabin fever in him, but he’s suddenly beset with a need to make a good impression on this nameless beauty.

He inhales a deep breath and yells across the divide, “Apologies, love! Didn’t mean to interrupt your frolicking! It was very lovely! Please don’t stop on my account!”

She plants her hands on her hips, gaze narrowing, and he bloody likes that bit of fire. Her voice is barely audible as she hollers back at him. “Were you recording me?”

That’s rather a loaded question, isn’t it? “Not exactly!” he answers, truthfully. “I’m streaming and you danced into the middle of it! Come to think of it, perhaps you ought to be the one apologizing!”

Her expression stays hard, but he’s got a feeling she isn’t truly upset.

He sets an elbow on the railing, rests his chin in his hand. “Don’t be afraid to wax eloquent! I do like a bit of poetry!”

And there it is—a smile from her, though if he had to guess, it’s one that emerged against her will. “Nice try, buddy!” She’s turning, heading toward the door that will take her away, likely forever, and that he doesn’t care for at all.

“Leaving when we’ve only just met?” he yells. When she keeps walking, he adds, “At least give me your name!”

She glances back at him, head tilted as though deciding whether or not to give him this boon. His heart pounds as he waits.

“It’s Emma!”

He very nearly pumps his fist into the air in victory. “Pleasure, Emma! I’m Killian Jones!” It’s probably not the best idea to shout that in a neighborhood where he’s enjoyed relative anonymity. Is that the “good impression” he’s truly hoping to make—that of a roguish star? 

Or maybe he’s just desperate enough to say anything to keep her from leaving again, even dropping his own name.

She’s not dazzled, and that makes her all the more appealing. “Good for you!” She’s also not staying as she crosses the roof toward that bloody door again.

He makes another attempt. “Same time tomorrow, love? I’ll even join you! Beyoncé again or shall we do one of the Backstreet Boys routines?”

She laughs, and he feels like a king. “You wish!”

“With every fiber of my being!” he yells to her retreating back.

Then she’s gone.

He looks down at his phone. Bloody, bloody hell. He’s still online. “Sorry, mates,” he says. “Where were we?”

_That was so cute!!! Like a Hallmark movie in real life!!_

_Are you going to try to contact her????_

_What’d she look like? Was she pretty?_

_You totally deserve happiness!_

_I SHIP IT ALREADY!!!_

He frowns. Ship it? What the hell does that mean?

_Ugh. She’s just some rando dancing on the roof. She’s not even that good._

_@Charity Rude!! He likes her! You’re just jealous that it wasn’t you!_

_@Charity WTF?? Catty much?_

“Now, loves,” Killian interjects, “while I enjoy women fighting on my account as much as the next man, this is neither the time nor the place. How about I give you a peek of something I’m working on for my next record?” Tink’s going to kill him; he’s supposed to release the song during his web interview with Rolling Stone next week. But it works to quell the fight brewing in the comments.

_Yes! Yes! Yeeesssss!_

_PLZ OMG YOUR VOICE IS EVERYTHING_

_I’ll be a good girl, I promise!_

_Sing! Sing! Sing!_

_@Killian Jones Your faithful Italian fans thank you. You are a bright light in dark days._

_I love you so much!!_

_I’m a singer song-writer too. Maybe you can check out my youtube channel sometime!_

Killian shakes his head as another wave of hearts surges across his screen. He grabs a guitar in his flat, props the phone up on the coffee table before settling back on the sofa. “I call this one ‘Not Just Yet’...”

His fingers work by muscle memory, his vocals too, and it’s a good thing because his mind is on the mysterious lass one building over. How the bloody hell is he going to find her during a nationwide lockdown?

* * *

Shit. _Shit._

Emma leans against the inside of the access door to the roof, head tipped back against the metal. She just needed some air, to work out the pent-up energy crackling under her skin. She could have gone for a run— _should_ have—but she would have had to wear a mask and dodge any other human for the sake of social distancing. That, and she hates running. Hates. It.

Since the kickboxing gyms are closed, dancing seemed the next best option. And she wasn’t going to shake her stuff in David and Mary Margaret’s apartment. Nobody was going to see her on the rooftop.

Except Killian _freaking_ Jones.

There was no mistaking that rudely handsome man, all dark hair and pale eyes. He’s the physical embodiment of every mistake a woman would gladly make just to sample that thrill his smirk offers. Not her, of course. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt—and a son—as a souvenir.

That didn’t stop her heart from climbing into her throat when she found him leaning over the wrought-iron railing of his balcony, phone in hand, wearing that crooked smile that has fans swooning all across America. It also didn’t stop her stomach from flipping when he flirted with her. She reminds herself that from what little she knows about him, flirting is synonymous with breathing for him. If she’d been an eighty-five year old grandma doing the Macarena, she doubts their exchange would have gone differently.

What the hell is a celebrity like him doing in this neighborhood, anyway?

She squeezes her eyes shut, inhaling. This is ridiculous. She’s not going to lose her mind just because she had an encounter with a musician whose work she happens to enjoy. Yeah, she’s a fan, but the kind who buys his albums when they come out and maybe attends a concert if there’s one nearby and she has the time and money. Outside of that, he’s a nonentity in her life. 

Okay, yes, she does follow his Instagram, but it’s updated irregularly and usually with photos of the ocean or a good lager he’s found at some bar or another. She follows Chris Hemsworth, too. So it hardly counts.

Oh, god. Did Killian say he was streaming? As in a _live_ video?

She fishes her phone out of her pocket and opens the app. The last thing on his account is a picture of sheet music, taken at an artsy angle, with the caption, “The muse! She speaks!” It’s from a month ago. Her relief is short-lived, though, when she remembers that there are other streaming platforms.

She checks Facebook next. She only uses her account for her small circle of friends and family; she’s always been wary of having an online presence. Killian’s official page is the first that pops up in her search, and when she opens it, the video is at the top. It’s still going, though muted. She watches him for several seconds, his brows pinched downward as he strums his guitar, mouth moving soundlessly in song as hearts bubble over the image. She taps on the video and his voice comes through the tinny speakers of her phone.

 _Yeah, I’m a little broken_ _  
_ _I’m a little jagged at the edges_ _  
_ _Doesn’t mean I need savin’_ _  
_ _‘Cause I’m not drowning, baby_ _  
_ _No, not just yet._

 _I like me as I am_ _  
_ _Every scar, every bruise_ _  
_ _Can you love me as I am_ _  
_ _‘Cause I’m not drowning, baby_  
_No, I’m not drowning_ _  
Not just yet._

This is why she likes his music. It has nothing to do with the fact that the geometry of his face falls within the golden ratio or that he dresses like sex on legs. He could have a potato for a nose and wear a burlap sack, and she’d still buy his stuff. Because he puts into words the thoughts and feelings that she can’t find a voice for.

“Well? Do you approve?”

Her phone tumbles out her fingertips, clattering to the floor. He looked up at the camera after the last note and smiled, and for an idiotic heartbeat, it felt like he was talking directly to her rather than addressing a concourse of faceless fans. 

“I’m glad you like it,” he continues as she bends over to retrieve her phone. “I’m afraid our time’s up, mates.” Crying emoticons replace the steady flow of hearts, and he huffs a laugh. “Don’t cry, loves. We’ll do this again soon, you have my word on it. And Emma, if you’re watching this—”

The air in this dimly lit stairwell becomes thick.

“—I can’t wait for our dance-off tomorrow. Don’t be late.” He winks, and then reaches for the camera.

The screen goes dark, all the emoticons disappearing, replaced with “This content is currently unavailable. Check back later.” It’s going to be another thirty minutes or more before she can access it. Another thirty minutes before she can see how big of a fool of herself she’s made in front of millions.

All right, there’s no use denying that It happened. Doesn’t mean it has to happen again. There’s no way in hell she’s going anywhere near the roof tomorrow or any other day, she decides as she jogs down the stairs. 

Killian Jones will have to find someone else to entertain him.


	2. Decisions, Decisions

There’s a rhythm to baking. The pulsing thrum of an electric mixer. The clank of pans against oven racks. The beep-beep of a timer. When Emma’s in the kitchen, everything else bleeds away as her world narrows to measuring cups and stainless steel mixing bowls. No more thoughts about being cooped up because of a pandemic, no more thoughts about getting caught on some celebrity’s live-stream video last weekend. (No memory of his crooked smile and raspy British timbre as he invited her to meet him again the next day.)

Emma curses under her breath and drops the piping bag on the kitchen counter. Thanks to Killian Jones rudely invading her thoughts, the frosting on her cupcake is a gloppy mess. She’ll have to scrape it off and start over—for the second time. At this rate, she won’t have anything worthy for Instagram today, and she needs to get something online.

Two months ago, she was getting up at the crack of dawn to fill a smattering of custom orders she’d gotten through her social media accounts before she had to run off to her job at Granny’s Diner. Between the two, she was barely making ends meet for her and her ten-year-old son. She desperately wanted a better life for Henry, but being a high school dropout with a record and a single mother, opportunities weren’t exactly falling into her lap.

Until one did.

Moving to New York to open a bakery with a childhood friend was a big, scary leap, but with Henry’s enthusiastic support, Emma jumped. She still didn’t know what she did to deserve that kid. David and Mary Margaret, too. The Nolans demanded she and Henry stay with them until they could find a place of their own.

Of course, no one was expecting a nationwide lockdown only a couple of weeks after The Swan and Dragon opened. Fresh baked artisan bread and one-of-a-kind confections don’t qualify as “essential.” Emma’s back to where she started, filling a handful of orders that the fledgling bakery receives online—this time from the kitchen of her adopted brother and his wife.

That is, if she can concentrate enough to frost a damn cupcake.

“Those look so good.” Mary Margaret settles at the breakfast counter, looking like her chipper self, if a bit tired this late afternoon.

Emma sets one of the rejects in front of her sister-in-law. The new flower petal design she attempted in the buttercream looked more like wilted blobs. “Have one.”

Mary Margaret raises a brow. “You don’t need it for an order?”

Emma wishes. Her inbox hasn’t churned up any today, and Lily thinks some new posts on social media might generate interest. “I need something more photogenic. That one didn’t make the cut.”

“Ah.” Mary Margaret examines it with a frown and shakes her head. “Looks pretty to me, but what do I know? I’m just quality control.” She peels back the liner and takes a bite, moaning in appreciation.

Emma laughs. When she met Mary Margaret a decade ago, she wasn’t sure they’d get along. David’s then-girlfriend seemed so sweet and pure—almost too perfect—the opposite of Emma. But now she’s near the top of a very short list of the most important people in Emma’s life.

“This is sooo gooood,” Mary Margaret says after another bite. “New recipe?”

“Kind of.” Emma picks up her latest failure and, with a spatula, clears the frosting off into a bowl. “I took one of Ruth’s and tweaked it.” Her voice only trembles a little bit when she says the name of David’s late mother.

Mary Margaret nods and blessedly doesn’t encourage Emma to expound further. It’s been years, but she still can’t bring herself to talk about her last foster parent—the only one who had actually wanted to become something more than another temporary way-stop for an angry, shut-down teen.

“Done with school?” she asks Mary Margaret as she squeezes the piping bag, letting the bit of drying frosting join the rest in the bowl.

“Yes, thank goodness.” Mary Margaret blows out a heavy sigh. “I answered so many emails from anxious parents, my vision started to get blurry. I feel like the bears’ house.”

Emma glances up at her sister-in-law, brows furrowed. “The bear’s house?”

“From Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” Mary Margaret says. “You know, ‘too hot, too cold’? Only I’m either giving too much work to their kids or too little.” She rests her chin in her hand, shoulders sagging. “I don’t want to think about it right now.”

Emma passes her another cupcake from the reject pile. She’s not good at the comfort thing, but she remembers Ruth explaining once that food can nourish both body and soul. Granny said something similar, but it was about getting to someone’s heart through their stomach.

“I’m going to gain twenty pounds because of you.” Mary Margaret accepts the cupcake anyway. “You never did tell me what happened last weekend—the morning you went upstairs to get some fresh air.”

Emma’s hand slips and her piping tip gouges a line through the careful design she’d nearly finished. She swallows back a litany of explicatives and drops the whole cupcake into the bowl of cast-off frosting.

Killian Freaking Jones is the gift that keeps on giving.

“Sorry,” Mary Margaret says. “I didn’t mean to—”

Emma waves her off. “No, it’s not your fault. It’s mine. I’m just…” Distracted by a pair of clear blue eyes and a devil-may-care smirk.

“Off your game?” Mary Margaret supplies helpfully. She scrunches her nose. “Did something bad happen? You’ve been a little, I don’t know, jumpy since that day.”

Emma leans back against the opposite counter, sucking in a deep breath. She wasn’t going to tell anyone about her chance encounter with music’s favorite bad boy, but as she looks at her doe-eyed sister-in-law, she knows that’s not going to happen. Mary Margaret has some kind of magical aura that has everyone confessing all their secrets. Probably because she’s the least judgmental person Emma’s ever met.

“So,” Emma says, unsure how to start, “I sort of ran into someone.”

“On the roof?” Mary Margaret, tips her head to the side, brows drawn together.

Emma shakes her head. “He was on a balcony on the building next door. I didn’t notice him at first because I was”— _kill me now_ —“doing the ‘Single Ladies’ dance. A part of it ended up in the video he was live-streaming.”

Mary Margaret bites her lips like she’s trying to hold back laughter. “Okay, first,” she says after a beat, “that’s _our_ dance. I’m a little bit offended you didn’t invite me to join you.”

“In my defense,” Emma returns with a grin, “you were spending a lot of time praying to the porcelain god that day.”

Mary Margaret makes a face. “Pregnancy is a blessing and a curse.” She swipes a dollop of frosting off her cupcake with a finger and samples it. “Second, I’m guessing there’s more to this story. Because as embarrassing as accidentally rocking Beyoncé moves on some stranger’s social media account can be, it’s not like you’ll ever cross paths with the guy again.”

“Who’s rocking Beyoncé moves?” David slides into the seat next to his wife, and Emma wants to groan. Of course this conversation is happening on one of his rare days off. He points to the discarded cupcake in the bowl. “May I?”

“Be my guest.” Emma pushes the bowl toward him.

“Emma was just telling me about ending up in someone’s live video when she went to the roof,” Mary Margaret says.

David frowns. “You can sue. Have them take it down.” He takes the role of protective big brother a little too seriously. Being a detective for the NYPD doesn’t help.

Emma rolls her eyes. “My face isn’t in the video.” Thank god.

“You found it? That’s lucky,” Mary Margaret says, but after studying Emma with a shrewd gaze, she adds, “But that’s not the problem.”

“Nope,” Emma agrees. “The problem is that he’s not just some random stranger. He’s Killian Jones.”

Both Mary Margaret and David stare back at her in stunned disbelief. Emma can’t blame them; she wouldn’t believe it if it hadn’t happened to her.

“I knew it! I knew he had to live around here!” Mary Margaret smacks David’s arm, ignoring his soft yelps. “Remember, after Christmas, when we were at Trader Joe’s and I pointed him out to you? I told you it was him!”

“You did.” David glances at Emma, expression steely. He’s in serious lawman mode now. “Exactly what happened between you and him? Don’t leave anything out.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Emma says, but she recounts the whole thing anyway, including catching the tail-end of Killian’s live stream.

“You didn’t go back the next day, right?” David asks when she finishes.

“No, of course not.” Emma gives him a flat look. Sometimes he forgets that she’s probably more street smart than he is. “Besides, I’m pretty sure he’s forgotten all about me by now.” Which is exactly what she wants. Absolutely. One hundred percent.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Mary Margaret interjects. She’s been strangely quiet the last couple of minutes, and now Emma sees why as she passes over her phone.

On it is one of Killian’s Facebook videos. The caption beneath reads, “To the Enigmatic Tiny Dancer Next Door.” Emma’s middle comes alive with a swirl of dread and something else she’d rather not name as she scrolls down to find more videos dedicated to her, one for each day since their encounter. She taps on the video labeled “To the Neighboring Dancing Queen,” and yes, he’s doing a slowed-down cover of the ABBA hit with an acoustic guitar, transforming it into something more indie folk with updated lyrics. For a heartbeat, she’s lost in the dips and peaks of his singing voice, and the way he closes his eyes, features pinching with an earnestness that the original version lacks. It’s really unfair that he’s so damn handsome, especially like this.

At the end of his performance, he looks into the camera. “Sorry I missed you again, love. I’ll look for you tomorrow.” He winks, and her cheeks heat in response.

“What the hell?” David grabs the phone and slides his thumb over the screen, mouth becoming a thin line. “This is harassment. I’m going to have a talk with him. I don’t care if he’s famous, that’s not okay. The building next door, right?”

“David, stop.” Mary Margaret puts her hand on his arm when he starts to rise. “It’s actually kind of sweet that Emma’s made an impression on him. But it doesn’t matter what you or I think. It matters what Emma wants.”

Emma shoots her sister-in-law a grateful look. As much as she’s glad to have David’s support, she hates when he gets overzealous. “Killian Jones is my problem, and I’ll take care of it.” Or she won’t. She runs a hand over her face. It’s stupid that she’s so conflicted over this. As much as she knows he’s bad news, her stomach is still fluttering over the fact that he hasn’t forgotten her.

“Mom? Are you okay?”

Emma’s eyes snap open. Henry stands at the threshold of the kitchen, looking far more grave than any ten-year-old has business being. She wishes he hasn’t had to grow up so fast, wishes she’d made better choices when she was younger—but then, as Mary Margaret reminds her, she wouldn’t have him. And he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to her.

“Yeah, kid. I’m fine.” She gives him a bright smile. “Do you need something?”

He studies her for a few seconds before answering. “Can I go on the laptop? I want to go on Prodigy.”

Emma purses her lips. Something feels off about his request, but she can’t put her finger on it. She knows he’s finished his schoolwork for the day, and the laptop has so many parental filters, it’d be practically impossible for him to end up in the dark alleys of the internet. It’s probably the fact that he wants to go on the computer to play math games, especially when David has an Xbox. But if it means helping him with his least favorite subject in school…

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Just until dinner.”

Henry barrels across the kitchen to give her a tight hug. “Thanks, Mom!”

David excuses himself after Henry leaves, saying something about catching up on Brooklynn 99, but Mary Margaret lingers. Emma grabs one of the cupcakes on the cooling rack and preps for another go at a frosting masterpiece. She’s getting a photo today come hell or high water.

“I think you should talk to him,” Mary Margaret says.

“Who? Henry?” Emma asks, only half-listening. She’s frowning at the piping tips scattered on the counter, wondering if maybe that’s the issue—that she needs a smaller one.

Mary Margaret breathes a soft laugh. “No, I meant Killian. What’s the worst that can happen? He turns out to be an arrogant jerk and you block him on Facebook?”

Emma blinks at her sister-in-law as her meaning sinks in. Oh, no. Mary Margaret is wrong. Emma has lived the worst thing that can happen with a sweet-talking rebel-without-a-cause. Neal not only knocked her up and crushed her heart, he left her to answer for his crimes. Hell, even clean-cut, boy-next-door Walsh had turned out to be another charming bastard, if a different breed.

Emma already finds Killian Jones attractive—his ridiculous looks, his flirty banter, his music, the whole damn package—and that’s more than enough reason to stay the hell away.

But Mary Margaret won’t get it. She found Prince Charming and got her fairy tale ending, and she’s naive enough to believe that romantic happily-ever-afters are meant for everyone.

Emma sighs. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask.” Mary Margaret grins before tearing a chunk from her unfinished cupcake and popping it in her mouth.

* * *

Killian leans back in his leather office chair and laces his fingers behind his head. He’s been cooped up in the small studio in his flat for the last couple of hours, working with Elsa on one of her songs. He closes his eyes as she sings the revised record. The poor audio quality from his laptop is hardly amplified by his high-end headphones, but it does the job. He could listen to the woman sing bloody nursery rhymes, her voice is so glorious.

He wonders if Emma sings at all. Or does she croon endearingly off-key?

“What do you think?”

Bloody hell. He’s doing it again, letting his thoughts wander to the blond the next building over. It’s been five days, and he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of the lass. He knows he ought to let sleeping dogs lie, but he can’t seem to manage it.

“I think you’ve finally got a hook,” he says to Elsa, “though I still think you need space between the verses and the chorus.”

Elsa nods on his laptop screen, gaze dropping downward. He can’t see her fingers dancing across the electric keyboard she’s been using, but a melody comes through the video feed—one that’s going to be stuck in his head for the rest of the day thanks to this “quick” session. Elsa sings the last couple of lines of the first verse, and instead of barrelling straight into the chorus, she adds a few bars of music. The small adjustment adds tension, and the hook is a bigger payoff.

“Yes,” he says when she finishes. “You’ve got a bloody hit now.”

She smiles timidly back at him. The pop superstar is shy when she’s not performing. “Thanks for your help,” she says. “Oh! Before I forget, you know how my sister Anna is doing that youtube show?”

“Aye.” If he recalls correctly it’s about lifting spirits during the pandemic—shedding a light on all the good still happening in the world and all that.

“There’s a girl who’s just beat cancer that Anna wants to feature on her next episode,” Elsa explains, “and she’s a really big Killian Jones fan. Anna was wondering if you’d be willing to do a quick video chat with her. Maybe sing one of her favorite songs?”

Killian grins. This is the type of request that he has no trouble honoring. “Tell Anna she can count on me. Have her text me with the details.”

“I’ll tell her.” Elsa is positively beaming. “Thank you again! You’re the best.” She ends the video chat, and the screen goes dark.

The silence is short-lived, however, as his phone chimes. It’s a text from Tink.

_Meeting. Now._

He grimaces when a link comes through for a Zoom conference. This is an ambush, otherwise she’d use Facetime. He grabs his laptop and heads to the kitchen. If he’s going to be yelled at, he’s going to get a damn drink first.

Tumbler of rum in hand, he settles on the couch, and with a few keystrokes, Tink and Regina pop up on his screen, both looking daggers at him.

“Have at it, then.” Killian gestures toward them with resignation. He can guess what this emergency conference might be about.

“What the hell are you thinking?” Regina says. “You were only supposed to log into your Facebook page to do the Q&A video, not turn it into some Bachelor knock-off where you sing emo songs, looking for your one true love.”

He grinds his teeth. Regina Mills is the best publicist in the business, but she’s hell to work with sometimes. She calls herself “no nonsense.” He’s got another word for it, and it’s far less generous. To his utter bewilderment, his best mate, Robin, is absolutely mad about the viper. To each their own, Killian supposes.

“It’s my bloody Facebook page,” he reminds Regina, “and I can do whatever I like with it.”

“No. You can’t.” Regina gives him a flat look. “That page is part of a carefully orchestrated campaign, and you’re treating it like a dating profile!”

“What Regina means,” Tink interrupts, “is that we’re concerned about you.”

Killian crosses his arms with a snort. Likely story. They’re upset that he’s gone off book. “I don’t see the problem. The fans aren’t complaining.” He doesn’t know if that’s true, actually. He hasn’t read any of the comments. His hope is that Emma will finally come to the rooftop after seeing one of the videos.

“Of course not!” Regina snaps. “You could post a video of you trashing a hotel room, and they’d make it viral. They think this is some modern day Cinderella story with you playing the lovestruck prince.”

Killian looks heavenward. That’s a bit much; he’s not lovestruck, merely intrigued.

“If you want to date, that’s fine,” Regina says. “We have a system in place for that. Use it.”

Yes, he knows all about the bloody system—the vetting process they drag every woman that he’s ever fancied in the slightest through, all in the name of discretion. Not that he’s had more than dalliances in recent years.

“And leave the Facebook page to my staff.” Regina abruptly ends her video feed.

He rolls his eyes. “Someone spit in her coffee today?”

Tink gives him a sardonic grin. “You’re not the only client misbehaving in quarantine,” she says. “But she does have a point. You’re not thinking this through.”

“Perhaps,” he concedes, though he’d never admit it to Regina. “But Emma’s become an itch I can’t scratch.”

“Killian—”

“I don’t bloody mean that way,” he says. “I only want to have a conversation with her like any normal human being.”

Tink winces. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re anything but normal.”

He wants to argue that he puts his bloody pants on one leg at a time just the same as everyone else, but he understands what she means. Like it or not, everything he does is fodder for public scrutiny.

None of that is going to stop him, though. His life is still _his_ , no matter what others might think, and by the way Tink’s eyes narrow, she’s guessed his thoughts.

She heaves a sigh. “Just be careful.”

“Always, love.” He gives her a winning smile before her image disappears.

He closes the laptop and sets it on the coffee table. As interventions go, that was rather tame. He’s not keen on his fanbase dreaming up an epic romance for him out of this unusual situation, but it’s a far cry from the time he had surgery to remove his tonsils and the tabloids declared that he was secretly losing a battle with throat cancer.

His phone buzzes, and he almost doesn’t pick it up. It seems that everyone he knows is trying to make up for weeks of relative silence in a single day. _Buzz-buzz_. Oh, bloody hell. Even if he lets it go to voicemail, he’ll have to listen to it later. He can’t stand to let messages sit in his inbox.

He picks up the insistent device and frowns at the screen. It’s Ashley, one of Regina’s assistants. Usually the lass only calls to give him pertinent details about his various public appearances—what time the car will arrive or who Regina “suggests” (read: _demands_ ) he interact with at some industry event.

“Ashley,” he greets her.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Jones,” she says, “but I was moderating fan posts for your Facebook page, and there’s one I think you should see. If you log in, I can show you where to find it.”

He puts her on speaker, opens the app, and she guides him to the posts awaiting approval. Most of them are friendly, but one or two have his eyebrows climbing his forehead. He knows all about “thirsty” fans, thanks to that silly video he did with BuzzFeed last year, and these are on par with the tweets he was made to read aloud.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters after reading a particularly unsettling one. “She wants to cover my toes with chocolate syrup and suck on them?”

Ashley laughs softly. “Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to delete that one yet. The post you’re looking for is from an Emma Swan.”

His heart stumbles a beat at the name, and there it is suddenly on his screen. That’s her, the dancer from the rooftop, in the profile picture, head resting against a dark-haired lad who appears to be perhaps nine or ten years old. Pulse thrumming, he reads the message.

_Hi. I think ur looking for my mom._

Killian frowns. Mom? He glances at the photo again. Was it the boy who made the post? That begs another question, one that Killian hasn’t been willing to entertain until now. His mystery dancer may not be available to chat with a lonely musician. Is that why she hasn’t returned to the rooftop? Tink was right; he hasn’t thought this through.

“Did you find it?” Ashley asks, pulling him out of his morose thoughts.

“Aye.” He clears his throat. “Does Regina know about this?”

“No.”

“Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

“Of course,” she says. “Good luck, Mr. Jones.”

He thanks Ashley, and she rings off, leaving him to stare at the woman who has taken entirely too much space in his mind for the last several days.

It would be easy to sic Regina’s bloodhounds on her, to ferret out every detail of her life. Then he’d know for certain if she’s married or otherwise engaged—that she’s a mother isn’t necessarily a deterrent for him. But he doesn’t want to play the pampered celebrity with a curated social life. When was the last time his heart raced for something other than the stage?

No, he’s going to do this the old-fashioned way.

He logs out and logs into his personal Facebook. His verified page is connected to a dummy account as a way to keep his fans at a safe distance. He does a search for Emma Swan, and she’s the third one in the results. The cover photo on her profile has her among a group of people in front of a place called “The Swan and Dragon.” There’s a sign proclaiming a grand opening beneath the awning. His finger hovers over the messenger icon.

Regina’s and Tink’s voices shout in the back of his head, warning him against this impulsive gambit. There are any number of ways this could turn out poorly.

He taps the icon.

Emma can tell him to sod off, but until she does, he’s not giving up.


End file.
